Kiss Of Evil

26

La Botanica Macumba occupies one corner of Fulton Road and Newark Avenue, on Cleveland’s near-west side, next to a used-shoe mart run by lay personnel at St. Rocco’s called The Deserving Sole. Beneath the botanica’s large red-lettered sign is a legend that reads: Hierbas Para Banos/Todas Clases.

Paris finds no small irony-now that he has a little background on Santeria and knows how it came into being-that the reflection in the window of La Botanica Macumba is of St. Rocco’s across the street. The botanica’s window is a patchwork quilt of brightly colored banners, decrying the shop’s exotica: Spanish Cards! Sugar Candy! Pompeia Perfume! Blue Balls! High John Root! Maja Products!

Yet there, in the center of the window, is a diaphanous cruciform, a cross reflected from the facade of St. Rocco’s. Next to the likeness, a neon sign that claims that La Botanica Macumba is a “grocery store for the body and soul.”

As Paris enters he is immediately beguiled by a seductively sweet aroma. He sees the smoldering cone on a nearby brass plate. A tented, hand-lettered card reads: nag champa.

There is one other customer in the shop, an Hispanic man in his seventies.

Paris and Mercedes look around the small store a while, waiting for the proprietor to wrap up his business with the other customer. On one wall there is a huge rack of oils, incense, and soaps, many promising a variety of benefits: from keeping away spirits to drawing money or love to keeping one’s spouse at home. “Stay With Me” one of the oils is called, Paris notes with an inner smile, thinking: Coulda used some of that. On another wall is a magazine and book rack, along with a dozen cardboard display bins of candles, herbs, voodoo supplies, gris-gris, dolls, artwork, CDs, T-shirts, tarot decks.

After a few moments, the customer leaves. Paris and Mercedes approach the counter.

“My name is Edward Moriceau,” the man behind the counter says. He is sixty, thin and wiry, dark-skinned, of indefinable heritage. North African, perhaps. There is a ring on each of his fingers, including his thumbs. “Mojuba!”

“I’m sorry?” Paris says.

“It is a Lucumi term of greeting. It means ‘I salute you.’”

“Oh,” Paris says. “Thanks.”

“How can I help you?”

Paris shows the man his shield. “My name is Detective Paris. I’m with the Homicide Unit of the Cleveland Police Department. This is Ms. Cruz. She’s a reporter with Mondo Latino.”

Moriceau nods at Mercedes, says, “Yes. I am familiar with your paper, of course.” He gestures to a wire newspaper bin near the door, where a small stack of Mondo Latino newspapers reside.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Paris says.

“Certainly.”

“Do you recognize this?” Paris holds up a pencil sketch of the symbol found on both Willis Walker and Fayette Martin.

“Yes. It is the symbol for Ochosi.”

“Could you spell that for me, please?”

Moriceau does.

“What does it mean?” Paris asks.

“Ochosi is a hunter god. The bow and arrow are his tools.”

“What is it for?”

“For?”

“Why would someone pray to this god?”

“For many things, detective,” Moriceau says as he turns to the display case behind him, removing a small iron replica of the bow-and-arrow symbol. “It depends upon what is in the heart of he who prays. If you are a decent person, a law-abiding citizen, you might pray to Ochosi for bounty. If you are a thief, with the proper sacrifice, the hunter god Ochosi can ward off arrest, police, jail.”

Paris and Mercedes exchange a glance. “Sacrifice?” Paris asks.

Moriceau offers a sad, lopsided smile. “I’m afraid there are more misconceptions than truths about the Afro-Caribbean religions. The notion of human sacrifice is one of the most insidious.”

“I didn’t say anything about human sacrifice,” Paris says.

“You are a homicide detective,” Moriceau says. “I trust you are not here because of some disemboweled rooster.”

Paris doesn’t particularly care for the man’s attitude, but lets the snide remark slide for the moment. “I didn’t say there was a disemboweled anything. I’m here to ask some basic questions about Santeria. Mind if I continue?”

“Not at all.”

“Are there many followers of Santeria in Cleveland?”

“Yes. But Santeria is not a centralized religion. It is impossible to count the number of worshipers in this or any city.”

“Do you have any regular customers who’ve mentioned this Ochosi lately?”

“None that come to mind. There are many subtle variations in the Afro-Caribbean religions. Many different names for things.”

“So, there’s no way to pin down which sect might use this god for, say, darker purposes?”

“Not really. It is as if someone says that they are a practicing Christian. Are they Methodist? Baptist? Mormon? Adventist? Roman Catholic? If a brujo were to purchase items for an altar, there are many different combinations of symbols, candles, cards, incantations he might use. Brazilian Macumba, Haitian voodoo, Mexican Santeria. Santeria and its offshoots like Palo Mayombe are very complex, very secretive religions that differ from country to country.”

For some reason, Paris is feeling a bit defensive about Catholicism, even though he knows he hardly has the right. “And what exactly is a brujo?”

“A brujo is sort of a wizard, a seer. A male witch, to some. But these words have completely different meanings than they do in English.”

“Are there any of these brujos in Cleveland?”

“A few. Although, if I may anticipate your next question, I do not keep a list. We generally do not ask to what use our customers put our goods.”

Paris jots a few more notes in his book, liking Moriceau’s attitude less and less. “What sorts of items might a customer ask for if he were doing evil things?”

“Well, followers of Palo Mayombe sometimes ask for palo azul-blue stick. It is an item many botanicas do not stock. This one included. But there are many exotic things used for good and evil. One botanica in New York City regularly stocks dried cobra. Some stock something called una de gato-cat’s claw.”

“Have you had any unusual requests lately?”

“No,” Moriceau says. “Nothing like that.”

Paris closes his notebook. He looks at Mercedes, who shakes her head slightly, indicating she had no questions, nor anything to add.

Moriceau says: “Now, may I ask you a question, detective?”

“You can ask,” Paris answers, buttoning his coat.

“Obviously, there has been some sort of tragedy. A murder, most likely. My hope is that the police department is not going to conduct some sort of a witch hunt against the Hispanic and Caribbean people of this city. Most of the people who follow Santeria are peaceful, tax-paying citizens. They believe in the magic and the magic works for them. They just want to win the lottery. Or have a healthy child. Or hang on to their wife or husband for a few more years. These are not criminal acts.”

Paris leans over the counter. He brings his face to within inches of Moriceau’s. “If I’m not mistaken, witch hunts are where the authorities round up people with no evidence. Only suspicion. I’m here for a reason, Mr. Moriceau.”

The two men look at each other for a few hard moments, exchanging will. Paris wins.

“I did not mean to imply-” Moriceau begins.

Paris leans back, holds out his right hand, shows it empty, both sides, then produces a business card with a quick flourish. It is an easy sleight-of-hand, a holdover from his amateur magician days as a teenager.

“Very good, detective,” Moriceau says.

“But not magic, Mr. Moriceau. Merely a parlor trick. Which, upon closer examination, I have always found the supernatural to be.”

Moriceau takes the card and glances at Mercedes. He finds no quarter there.

Paris continues: “If you remember anything else, or if you have any customers who request paraphernalia relating specifically to this Ochosi, please give me a call.”

Moriceau examines the card, remains silent.

“One last question,” Paris says. “Is there a Santerian term for ‘white chalk’?”

“Ofun,” Moriceau says. “It is a chalk made from eggshells.”

Mr. Church, the weirdo who had phoned about the missing woman, had said: “You will take her place in ofun.”

The chalk outline.

This prick had called him.

“Thanks for your time,” Paris says, and turns for the exit, the nag champa filling his senses.

As Paris opens the door for Mercedes, and an icy wind greets them, he shudders for a moment. Not from the cold, but rather from the irony of Edward Moriceau’s words.

Brujo, Paris thinks.

It might be a witch he is hunting after all.